


Le(z)bians

by songsaboutdrowning



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsaboutdrowning/pseuds/songsaboutdrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hectic tour, Florence finally gets to spend some time with her sister, but there is one development she hasn't quite told her about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello. Long time no fic.
> 
> This is an idea I got sometime last summer after seeing [this IG photo](https://31.media.tumblr.com/8409328cea449612301348e026970a55/tumblr_inline_n2yk2cUVTo1rx0rwd.jpg)… note what word is written just above Isa’s head? I haven’t finished writing it yet, but I reckon there will only be two parts in total. Maybe three if it gets really long (the bit I’m still working on is well over 2000 words already and far from finished).
> 
> Hope you like. If you spot any typos, please let me know. Oh, for those who don’t know Grace’s age - this is set in the summer of 2010.

They’d made her write a song about it. Well, they hadn’t exactly  _requested_  “sacrifice” as a topic, all they wanted was an uptempo. And of all things, she’d chosen to write about the things she would have to give up for fame and fortune: time for friends, time for family, even time for love. Everything was touring and travelling and playing. It was impossible to know what day of the week it was, the majority of the time.

Florence mostly measured time based on what family gatherings and friends’ events she was missing week on week, back home in London. Sadsack, for one – her birthday was spent flying across two continents, so much so that Florence wasn’t even sure which timezone it was best to send a text from. And Grace’s twenty-first: although Florence was in England at the time and had taken a day off, her little sister had almost taken a back seat at her own party, because everyone was too busy asking Florence what she’d been up to, and what having a brand new life felt like.

Then, nothingness. A two-month stop before they were due to play any more gigs, and suddenly there was too much time for  _everything_. The evenings seemed so quiet without a crowd to play to, the house seemed deserted with only her mum and two siblings in it, and if she couldn’t be playing music, she at least wanted to be creating some more. Instead, guilt kicked in for what had happened at Grace’s birthday, and Florence wanted to do something special for her. Soon it would be her own birthday and then JJ’s, and Grace still hadn’t had any quality time.

There had been a time where, despite the slight age gap, it was unthinkable for Florence and Grace that they wouldn’t spend at least _some_ time together every day. Then Florence met Isa. After Isa, she met Rob; then Rob introduced her to Chris. She started spending more and more time out of the house. She started touring – even if touring, at the time, meant just travelling around on a minibus with her dad at the wheel. Sisterly time had become a commodity, and something they both missed. Florence thought it was unlikely that either of them would ever fully get used to this new state of things.

It occurred to her, to compromise between her needs and Grace’s, to take her down to Crystal Palace one day, and have her sit in while she and Isa fiddled with keyboards and computers, hoping that some good ideas would materialise along the way. She’d never really shared that part of the creative process before, and she hoped Grace could see the significance of the offer. The studios were their sanctuary – no one was really allowed in that wasn’t a part of their shared vision. Florence didn’t take friends to look around or hang out: there were plenty of bars and clubs and parties for that. This was their sacred place, heavy with the ghosts of words past and present, discarded lyrics, sleepless nights, drunken tears over Stuart, drunken squeals over Madonna singles that Isa remembered watching on tv as a child, before Florence was even born. Sharing the place was as personal as sharing her journal, and she hoped Grace would see that.

So, bright and early one Thursday morning, just a mere couple of days before Florence’s own birthday, they sauntered down a side street that people not from the area would probably believe led to nowhere. Down a hill, down to terraced houses with families and children as opposed to the older, but more expensive flats above shops on the main roads.

To be fair, there were some terraced houses. But there was also an old courtyard, and a market, and a second hand bookshop Florence spent so much time in, she sometimes overstayed her welcome – and the shop’s opening hours. Then, around a corner, hidden away behind a wooden gate, there was one of Isa’s two studios, on an upper floor you’d never even notice if you didn’t know it was there.

Florence looked around like she didn’t recognise the place, when really, it hadn’t been that long since they’d last used it. The dull thud of a drumkit filled the air from one of the downstairs rehearsal rooms, and she shouted for Isa before she even started up the stairs. There was no way Isa could even hear her, not with the massive headphones she had on, but she was expecting them, so she’d left the door propped open.

When she saw Florence and Grace making their way up, Isa picked up a previously rolled spliff that she’d left on top of her extremely outdated mixer, and stood up to greet them.

“Welcome to my den of perdition!” It was a very Isa thing to say, especially as she was handing Grace some of her best weed. “Here’s your belated present.”

“In fact, we will just pretend it’s your birthday today. Congratulations!” she continued, a little stoned herself. “You are now officially old enough to drink in America!”

“Speaking of which,” Grace said while lighting her birthday present, “you got drugs, you got celebrities,” she tilted her head towards Florence, “but where’s the booze?”

“I haven’t gone Sainsbury’s yet,” Florence explained when Isa looked confused. “Wanted to stop by the market before the book man closed for lunch.”

  
Grace rolled her eyes, recalling the half hour she’d been left looking at mismatched china and creepy toys from the 70s whilst her older sister was completely lost to the world. It wasn’t that Florence was trying to intentionally sabotage her birthday celebration for the second time… she just couldn’t help herself.

“Of  _course_  you did.” Isa laughed. “Come on in, Gracie.”

The studio was really just a very narrow gangway. One and a half walls were covered in racks of records, with three keyboards and several other gadgets Grace didn’t recognise lined up along the longer side of the room. Every surface was covered in posters, flyers, sketches or just messages Isa and her friends had written over the years. She recognised some of Florence’s lyrics in a square and carefully perused a piece of paper that was hanging above the door titled “The 10 Florence Commandments”.

“Ah, yes – your seeds phase!” Grace smiled, remembering one of her sister’s short-lived food obsessions. “I most definitely do  _not_  want seeds when you go buy lunch.”

“What is it you want, then?” Florence asked, still loitering outside the door, because they didn’t even all fit inside.

“Ah you know, the usual. Champers. Caviar. Oysters. Everything you can afford now that you’re a celebri- _tay_.”

Florence only half-smiled at that. She didn’t feel any different, and part of her resented this  _thing_  that kept her apart from her friends and family. Another part never really wanted to do anything else in life, though, and this dichotomy was going to kill her in the long run. She was destined to spend her time in London wishing she was on stage, and her time on stage wishing she was in London. In a weird way, things were easier when she was just starting out and singing for free with maybe ten percent of the audience paying any kind of attention. She sang the same songs then; some of those had charted since, some had music videos. But it’d still only just started with her, and Isa, and one particular (cheap) keyboard, and a hangover. She moved over to said keyboard and gingerly played the first three chords of Cosmic Love.

“We wrote it here,” she said to Isa, looking at her intensely, like she was making a point no one else could understand.

“Yeah. I know.” Isa arched an eyebrow.

Florence could do something similar now, just sound out the first words that came into her head and make them into a song. They would be very different words now, happy words, but – not with Gracie present. She still felt naked and vulnerable exposing lyric ideas for the first time; it was hard enough to do even with just Isa there. Better to cling onto something they all already knew, better to cave to the impulse of belting something out, better to go back into her tour bubble for a few seconds.

_A falling star fell from your heart…_  
  
Every few words she would look at Isa and smile, like there was some secret, unspoken happiness between them. Yes, this was definitely the most lively Florence had been since getting back, like three chords on a keyboard had somehow infused her back with life. But her smile kept falling as rapidly as it appeared, and Grace recognised the panicked look that crossed Florence’s eyes whenever she was trying to push her darkest thoughts away.

Surprisingly, Isa joined in the singing, and they raised their voices until they were screaming out a line each, flipping their hair left and right and striking dramatic poses, arms extended towards each other in theatrical longing. It was like Grace wasn’t in the room, just the two of them. There wasn’t even music any more – no one’s hands had touched the keys after the second verse. Just a lot of screaming of “ _THE STARS! THE MOON!_ ” and an amused 21-year-old rolling her eyes and puffing on her joint.

“Do you ever just… switch off? Go buy me food!” Grace shouted and then burst into giggles, but Florence knew that she could be ridiculously cranky on an empty stomach, plus the weed was probably contributing to the munchies.

“You coming?” Florence turned to Isa, who shrugged, but eventually switched off her keyboard and took Flo’s extended hand, only to release it a couple of seconds later.

“Flo, she’s stoned. I’m not leaving her here with all my equipment.”

Florence raised an eyebrow. “Like you’ve never been here and stoned on your own, huh?”

  
“Yeah but… some of this stuff is well expensive and I’ve only just bought it? Maybe I can show her how to use it. Maybe it’s a Welch family trait to produce good work under the influence,” Isa said with a wink.

There it was again. The worried look from Florence to Isa, like something terrible was going to happen to her if she ventured out to the supermarket on her own. Grace saw it, but she told herself it had only been a split-second interaction, one that she’d probably experienced in slow-motion because of the chemicals in her body. Florence  _did_  eventually go, so she couldn’t have possibly been  _that_  scared. And Isa  _hadn’t_  been rubbing her thumb across the back of Florence’s hand all throughout their short conversation, had she? Time was just dilated to Grace, and everything seemed bigger and brighter and deeper. Maybe Florence wasn’t as unhappy as she’d looked. Normally, Grace would ask – she knew Isa well enough that they could share their concerns if something was wrong with Florence – but today… today it seemed like a more fun idea to read and discuss the many messages that people had written over Isa’s walls over the years.

One of them claimed Isa as Lucy Lovebird’s lover. Grace had heard a lot about Lucy, but when she tried to remember if she’d ever met her in person, her brain just went fuzzy, and she supposed it wasn’t really important after all. Certainly not as important as leaving her own mark in the studio.

“Do you just let _any_ one write on these walls?” She asked, smirking.

“Sure,” Isa passed her a Sharpie with a smile. “Knock yourself out.”

*******

When Florence got back from Sainsbury’s, Grace was halfway through drawing what seemed to be a very bad Bob Marley caricature, with Isa playing the chords to One Love just to humour her.

Lips parted slightly for the effort of climbing up the stairs with carrier bags, or maybe in concentration, Florence scrunched up her forehead trying to figure out what was different on the wall in front of her. She didn’t know if it was her trained eye that spotted one particular new addition straight away, or if it was seeing her first name when most of the messages were about, or addressed to, Isa.

What she saw made her stomach sink, and an incredulous “What.” formed on her lips.

Grace had written  _Flo and Iza are lezbians_ – with a z – just above the spot where she’d been sitting. And Isa hadn’t taken any notice – or offence. No, Isa was sitting with her back to the wall and an unlit spliff dangling from her mouth, playing three chords in a sequence like she was just waiting for something to happen to stir the quiet.

And happen it did. Florence dropped the orange plastic bags like she’d been stung by a bee. She flew down the stairs and ran around the corner, with Isa shouting after her and Grace merely raising an eyebrow.

She could walk back up the hill and to the bus terminal. She could take the bus that went past her old school to the edges of Camberwell, and walk back to her mum’s, leaving Gracie behind. She could go anywhere, anywhere she wanted, but she couldn’t stay there, she couldn’t face other people.

She’d been hurt, she’d been wronged.

Grace was right.  


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn’t right in the sense that Florence had gone on tour with one sexual orientation and come back with another. She wasn’t even right in the sense that something had permanently changed in Florence’s life. But she was definitely right in thinking that whatever was between her sister and Isabella had changed from friendship to something more, and that was what the graffiti meant, really. Nothing more, nothing less than “Florence and Isa are sleeping together”.

And Grace was right.

How she’d guessed it all of a sudden, Florence didn’t know. All she’d done was play a few chords; sing a song that had been one of her biggest hits – a song that she’d written for Stuart, something Gracie was definitely aware of; asked Isa to come along to the supermarket. Perhaps Florence had been right to never bring anyone into the studios all these years; perhaps the air was just filled with a different atmosphere; perhaps the walls had, proverbially, talked. Or maybe the weed just made Grace more perceptive.

Florence wasn’t expecting anyone to follow her, not at first anyway. Still, she made herself breathless, moving in a half-walk, half-run that took her to the bus station in five minutes instead of the usual fifteen. She walked past Isa’s flat as well, and considered stopping there, but if Isa turned up looking for her, she would definitely have her sister in tow. Grace had nowhere else to go from there other than Isa’s or back to her mum’s, which meant Florence could go anywhere,  _except_  for Isa’s, or back home.

Her bus was just leaving the terminal and she made a split-second decision to jump on the next one, even though she didn’t know the route, not caring where she ended up as long as she could spend the night in an unfamiliar place, with nothing to remind her of her failures, her problems, her elephant in the room. At some point, her thoughts would catch up with her and she’d regret choosing to be alone, but for now, she looked outside the window, searching for somewhere that would inspire her to hop off and spend the night.

She hadn’t done the running away thing at fourteen, when everyone would have expected it, yet she was doing it now as an adult, driven by anger and guilt. How could she tell Grace that the thing she was joking about was actually true? How could she tell her that the slur had hit right in the middle of her chest and she couldn’t breathe? Everything was sensation – the skin on her face prickled, her breath caught in her throat and she felt weak, like she was going to pass out.

Something caught her eye in the distance, a tower block hotel no one in their right mind would stay at, unless forced by circumstance. She pressed the button, quickly, before the courage left her, and walked the short distance from the bus stop to the lobby, thinking this would do as a hideaway for the night and praying her room didn’t have a view of the receiver, that it wasn’t facing in the direction of Isa’s flat. She just wanted to pretend to be someone else for a night. Someone with a simple life; someone who knew what they wanted. Not someone with half a boyfriend, half a lover; not someone half famous. Just someone who had never had to make a choice – someone who had never had to make a sacrifice.

As far as rebellious rockstar gestures went, booking herself into a Travelodge would probably not make headlines. In fact, the woman at the check-in desk didn’t even give Florence a second look – certainly didn’t recognise the up and coming singer that won a BRIT Award and headlined Reading and Leeds, not when she had no make up on and she’d hidden her distinctive hair up in a bun. She just asked single or double and how many nights, and gave her a key card and a brief explanation of how to get to her room. There, there was a person who had never had to make a sacrifice. There was a person who didn’t go through life – life went through  _her_. She just drifted and let things happen to her. Florence stitched this personality around her in a handful of seconds, completely disregarding that the woman at the check-in desk also had feelings, she had aspirations. Resentment and betrayal were just clouding Florence’s judgement; maybe she could write another uptempo about it.

She paid for a double room for the night, holding out hope that Isa would join her, but really, her desperation was making her sink so low, so rapidly, she had half a mind to pick up the phone and ring Stuart instead, just so she’d have company. Even though it had been less than an hour since she’d left, Florence was starting to see the error of her ways – she’d never had a worse idea in her life than being alone in a place like this. Everything about it screamed unhappiness and dissatisfaction. She walked the yellow-lit corridor with her key card in hand, like she could almost hear the sounds behind each door, all the sounds of loneliness – wanking, puking, snoring. Soon they would be joined by one red-haired, rising superstar, crying because she was unable to face the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this on the one year anniversary of Bodyswap <3  
> Thanks Kate for betaing xx

“What just happened?” Grace blinked. “What the hell was that for?”

Isa could pretend to be just as clueless and astonished as Grace was, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. She’d had a little chuckle to herself when Grace had been writing on the wall, but there was nothing funny about seeing Florence’s face fall and her eyes fill with tears.

“I think that thing on the wall kind of rubbed her the wrong way, kid.”

“What does she care?” Grace whinged, unnecessarily loudly. “She’s with Stuart, anyway.”

Isa sighed. She’d lost track of when Florence was with Stuart and when she wasn’t. It had come to matter less, as it became clearer to her that deep down, Florence was hers, regardless of him. But that was hard to explain to Grace. Grace, who didn’t even know her jokey message would hit a nerve, because she didn’t know there was a nerve to hit.

“I don’t know why she took it like that. Maybe she thinks ‘lesbians’ is offensive. Lots of people don’t like the word.” _Florence being one of them,_ Isa knew. Florence hated the bloody word, unless she was drunk. Then, a weird sense of humour would creep over her and she’d use it, even for herself.

Isa knew _exactly_ why Florence had taken it like that. And she knew running after Florence would make things worse. Someone had to stay behind with Gracie, act as if this wasn’t a big deal at all. Everything was alright. Grace was stoned, anyway. And fast on her way to drunkenness in unfamiliar surroundings. She’d probably forget all about it before Florence was even back. Wouldn’t she? Or was Isa stuck with explaining the technicalities? Was Florence even going to be back at all?

“Isa, she _is_ still with Stuart, isn’t she?” Grace pressed.

“I think so,” Isa murmured. “I can’t be sure, you know how they are. I mean, she does love him, but…”

The way Isa avoided making eye contact, the way her voice broke ever so slightly, told Grace that something about this conversation was causing Isa pain. Grace’s expression turned so serious, Isa thought the shock had actually sobered her up in an instant. “Isa? Are you guys actually… you know…”

“I don’t think I’m the best person to talk to about this.” Isa said, leaning onto the handrail. _Dammit, Florence,_ she thought. It was so unfair that she’d left Isa doing her dirty work. She fished her mobile out of her pocket and found Florence in her contacts, turning her back to Gracie for a minute, trying to formulate a plan in case Florence didn’t pick up or didn’t come back.

The phone rang out. Isa tried again, and again, and again, for what felt like a thousand times, but was probably, more realistically, just a dozen. Florence didn’t answer. It seemed like Isa was stuck babysitting for a little while longer.

She sighed, and faced Grace once again. “She’s ignoring me,” she stated, flatly, sadly, like she was the offending party. “I think we might need to go look for her.”

Florence had only been gone for maybe fifteen minutes, and Isa could only think of a handful of places she could be. She could have gone to the coffee shop they both liked, but it was tiny and she would have been quite visible through the windows. The pub was a little bigger, but it was far too early in the afternoon for Florence to be drowning her sorrows in cocktails. Isabella’s own flat was only a short walk away, but Flo didn’t really have her own set of keys. Maybe she’d just gone back to the market. That was as good a starting point as any.

“Gracie, I’m gonna see if she went to the bookshop. Come on, now. I need to lock up here.” She was still firmly intentioned not to let Florence’s sister near her equipment, but the damage Grace could do with her words was even worse than if she’d spilled wine on a keyboard.

“Are you in love with her?” She asked, just as Isa was shutting a giant padlock with both hands. It turned out Grace’s candid, carefree words were not harmful to Florence exclusively.

Isa rested her forehead on the door for a moment, determined to ignore the question. Then she grabbed her phone again, almost willing the screen to light up and give her news, but nothing happened. Isabella let out a tut – directed at which Welch sister it wasn’t clear.


	4. Chapter 4

The last time Florence had stayed in a budget hotel had been when her dad was driving her around on “tour”. Her group had had enough of cramming themselves into the back of a van, so they'd decided to skip the pub for one night and invest that money on actual beds, with sheets. She'd shared a double with Sophie that time, with Isa left to take the sofa bed in the corner, as she took up the least space among the three.

As much as Florence was a naturally touchy-feely person and would snuggle up to just about anyone, when it came to sharing her feelings, she wasn't really willing to disclose how performing made her feel to someone who wasn't up there with her. So although she may have had an arm around Sophie, or her head on Sophie's shoulder, the thoughts that were eating away at her brain stayed put.

It was only when the hotels started being paid for, and Sophie became an unjustifiable expense, that the nature of Florence's nighttimes had changed. She felt like she could talk to Isa, and tell her everything that she found terrifying about the stage and being on what felt like the wrong side of the barrier at a festival. The space between bodies had become smaller and smaller then, until arms and legs were wrapped around each other and every sigh was a secret attempt at inhaling Isa's scent and keeping it inside.

Florence stared at the smoke detector on the ceiling as she laid in bed, listening to everything and nothing.

Of course she had overreacted – she struggled to keep her emotions in check at the best of times. For her sister to guess the truth and write it on a wall – that was a tragedy. It put her in the position of owning up to it. Clearly, her behaviour had already started betraying her. The happiness that bubbled up whenever she looked at Isa. The knowing smiles, the feeling of Isa's small hand clutching hers... it wasn't touring she missed, Flo realised, it was an excuse to be around Isa all the time. Even with a whole crew travelling around with her, Florence had always been able to close a door, invoking “girly things” were happening. She would leave them, and the world, shut out as she and Isa undressed each other, with the same wonderment every time as if it was the first.

She knew Isa must be looking for her. She'd seen the missed calls and yet it felt so daunting to pick up her mobile and return them. It was resting on the opposite side of the bed, _Isa's_ side of the bed, and Florence felt like it was judging her – like an inanimate object could actually have an opinion of her, and that opinion was “Florence Welch is a coward.”

She moaned loudly and tossed around, cringing at her own limits, at how incapable she was of being level-headed and mature. Her little sister probably wouldn't have a problem with her and Isa being a couple, but Florence hadn't even given her a chance. Where Isa was analytical and planful, Florence was pure reaction, and sometimes being sensible seemed harder than trying to fly.

The phone started vibrating, rattling slightly on top of the pristine bedsheet. Florence forced herself to pick up, and she regretted her decision to ignore the first thirty or forty calls the minute Isa cut her off at “hello”.

“Where are you?” Oddly enough, Isa did not sound exasperated, just concerned.

“I'm hiding in the Travelodge.” Florence wished that sentence could have sounded less stupid, but it was a hard feat.

“The Palace one?”

Florence wanted to know, first and foremost, if Isa was alone or still with Grace, but something told her Isa had the upper hand in this conversation, and all she cared about was trying to divert her attention from the telling off that she was doubtlessly dying to deliver. “Technically, it's in Penge.”

“You know what I mean, Florence.” It was like Florence could _hear_ the eye-roll. “You can't leave me here to explain _us_ to your sister. I can't even explain _us_ to myself, most of the time.”

Florence heard Grace's voice shouting, “Where is she?”

That answered her question, she guessed, but she realised she didn't even know where Grace and Isa were. She couldn't know that by this point they had been to every coffee shop, pub and park in the whole of Crystal Palace and had only decided to give up the search when Grace had declared that she needed to pee so much she was no longer able to walk.

Something snapped inside of Florence and she reverted back to her defensive state. “Tell her to go home,” she said to Isa, “I'm not going to come back tonight. I can't even look at her right now.”

Shuffling. Background noise. Isa moving to a different room, no doubt. The response came in almost a sigh. “Just because she guessed?”

“She wasn't supposed to find out. Not this way.” Florence whinged, defeated. She realised she couldn't fight something that had already happened, but she felt like she'd been hit by a tonne of bricks of unfairness.

“If not this way then how, Flo? We can't exactly be forward with this. You're still with Stuart.”

Well, of course Isa would bring this up again and pin all the blame on her. Of fucking course. Like there wasn't also the public eye, the music industry... like there wasn't also Florence's family. And Isa's family. Stuart was just a scapegoat by this point.

“I love _you_.” Florence whispered. She wasn't the one sharing a space with another person, but it still sounded like a secret.

Isa relented. “I know you do.”

“I'm sorry I put you in this situation.” Apologising was a great way of distracting Isa from the fact they still hadn't resolved anything, someone needed to have a Big Talk with Grace, and Florence didn't want to be the one to do it – at least not tonight.

“You're not doing much to get me out of it, either. I don't see you rushing back to mine and coming to take care of your own sister.”

“I'm going to stay the night here but I'm going to speak to her tomorrow. I promise you, Isa. Ask her if she can just wait until tomorrow? I'd feel really stupid coming back now. I need to be alone and get my thoughts together. Don't tell her where I am. Put her on the 3. She can find her way from there, surely?”

As if she'd ever just accept a _You need to go now, Gracie. Florence will speak to you when she can be bothered_ , Isa thought. “I can drive her, Flo, isn't that better? And then maybe I can come see you?”

“Room 712.” Florence said. “I'll be here.”


	5. (conclusion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Le(z)bians: 
> 
> Florence takes Grace to the shloft as a belated birthday celebration. Grace gets high and writes on the wall that Flo and Isa, they lesbianing together. Florence does not take that very well. She runs off and books herself into a Travelodge because why the fuck not, and Isa has to go to the rescue. Set in August 2010.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, ok. Does anyone even remember I had this fic going on? It’s taken ages to finish and overall it’s taken like 10 months to write, no wonder it feels so wonderfully disconnected. /sarcasm 
> 
> Thanks to Kate for betaing and Rory for rewriting a sentence for the better.

She opened the door like she was letting her executioner in: head bowed, no eye contact, gritted teeth. Ready to accept the telling off that was undoubtedly coming. She and Isa had never really had an argument, technically, but there was a first time for everything, and this seemed like a good reason for them to finally have a fight. She had really fucked up this time. Isa was not a babysitter. Isa was not someone to dump problems onto when Florence didn’t want to face them. Surely, she’d reached her boiling point now. Maybe she was going to break up with Florence, and they would just tell Gracie that she’d misunderstood. Maybe from now on there’d be nothing for Grace to even gossip about.

But Isa took Florence’s hand in hers and stepped into the hotel room; she went to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on Florence’s arm gently. When Florence sat down next to her, Isa just sighed and looked her in the eye. There were no words left in Florence’s brain; no concepts to formulate, not when Isa’s fingers were interlaced with hers and Isa’s thumb was stroking her wrist, right on her pulse.

With Isa’s hand in hers, Flo’s worries all but disappeared. This small hand, so mismatched to her own, was the biggest source of strength she had ever known. Night after night, one small finger running up and down her arm made all the difference between running away screaming and staying in bed and falling asleep. Things were changing for Florence and they could easily get out of control, but Isa was a constant throughout. Stuart wasn’t as present and he was certainly not experiencing touring first-hand. Much as he wanted to understand, he often said the wrong thing without realising. But Isa, in all her small size, was a rock, and a certainty, and Florence didn’t want to be teased for loving her. She couldn’t. Isa single-handedly saved her every day.

“What did you tell Grace?” It wasn’t an accusation. Florence would have accepted whatever Isa said to her, because however Isa had decided to deal with it, it was going to be braver and more mature than Florence’s carelessness. Any answer would do as long as Florence could listen to Isa’s voice, the distinctive warmth of her tone, and find reassurance that Isa wasn’t mad, although she had plenty to be mad about.

“I told her you’re still with Stuart,” Isa responded. It sounded broken, hoarse, like shards of glass in her throat, “but you don’t know if it’s right for you any more. If _he_ 's right for you any more.”

Florence nodded, appreciating how Isa had manage to summarise her plight simply, but clearly.

“She asked about us, asked if I was in love with you.” Isa continued. “She says sometimes she sees something in the way I look at you.”

Isa shifted her gaze from the unexciting blue carpet to the landscape outside the window, the familiar sight of the receiver cast against a pastel, creamy sunset. It reminded her she was so close, yet so far away from home, from where Florence had run away. It had only happened earlier that day, but the experience had been so emotionally taxing that it felt like a lifetime.

Florence’s legs bounced softly against the foot of the bed, like she was on a swing. She wanted to ask what Isa had replied to that, wanted to know if Isa was in love with her. Because then she could turn around and tell her sister, her mum, _we are in love_. It wouldn’t just be a maybe-one-sided thing. They would no longer be not-quite-girlfriends. If Isa was in love with Florence, it would change a lot.

“I said it didn’t matter really. I said you were the only one who could decide about your future, and that I’d be with you no matter what. And that rushing you to make that decision would do more harm than good.”

“I _am_ in love with you.” Florence interrupted, “I’m sorry I’ve never said it.” She’d said “I love you”, sure, lots of times. Most recently she’d said it on the phone, when Isa was still stuck with Grace. “I love you” was safe and perfectly acceptable. You love your friends; you love your dog; hell, Florence had even been known to say “I love you” to a really good scone, sometimes.

But “I am in love with you” was another story. “I am in love with you” got Isa to look away from the sunset and back at Florence. “I am in love with you” got Florence a small smile and grey eyes full of tears, and suddenly, Florence didn’t want to hear what Isa had to say to that confession. Suddenly, Florence wanted to change the subject and navigate them both back to safety.

“Will you stay the night here?”

Isa sighed. “Florence, why don’t you just go home?”

Florence bit her lip. “I can’t put it into words.”

But she could, in her head, she just didn’t care for saying those words out loud. _I will have to look my mum and my sister in the eye and I’ll be reminded of how I’m lying to them, to myself. I’ll be reminded of the big, unsolved problem in my life and the fact I’m not doing anything about it._

“Florence, you’re never out of words. There are more words in your head than in an encyclopedia, and you know it.”

Isa let go of her hand, and Florence feared her wishy-washiness had finally done it – she’d got Isa mad. She _wanted_ Isa to get mad; she wanted Isa to raise her voice, to get feisty, the way she’d seen her get in clubs sometimes. She wanted to be put in her place, told she was wrong, but she would never get judgement from Isa, just support. She wanted Isa to storm out of the room and leave her to the loneliness she deserved, but Isa was a fighter. She never gave up.

Isa was climbing into the bed now, scrambling up to the headboard and curling up in the fetal position. She waited for Florence to take the hint and join her, waited for her head to hit the pillow on the other side of the bed, waited for Florence to brush the hair out of her eyes. And then she said, “I don’t know why you don’t want to talk about it. I _do_ know it’s not like you. And I do know that we’ve got through worse together, and we will get through this. We can get through anything.”

Florence frowned. “Why don’t you ever lose your patience with me?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Florence looked at her like she did on tour – like her whole life depended on it. Like when her biggest problem had been “did you see that guy in the front row, he looked really serious, what if he didn’t enjoy himself?”, and Isa would say “We put on a good show, Florence. Everyone loved it.”

She had this power, Isa. The power to make everything better.

It was during one of those moments of panic that Florence had first kissed her. Abruptly, but not roughly, and with her eyes shut tight so she wouldn’t see her reaction. Isa had kissed her back softly, and her fingers never for a moment stopped running up and down Florence’s arm. Florence had developed an addiction to her touch; by now she was convinced nothing else in the world would calm her down.

And now this – _because I’m in love with you_. Now that Florence had heard it once, she wanted to hear it again and again, and if it made her happy, then why should she be ashamed of it?

She finally found her resolve. “I think I need to call Grace. I think I need to apologise for overreacting.”

Isa didn’t miss a beat. “You should. It was kind of her birthday celebration.” She didn’t mind that Florence hadn’t acknowledged her admission; she knew it had hit her right where it mattered. She knew it had set things in motion.

Florence spoke frantically now, as her head was putting puzzle pieces back together. “I’ll give up my birthday and that can be her third celebration. Third time lucky, right? And I think I need to call Stuart. I can’t do this any more, Isa.”

Stuart was tension. Stuart was talking until 3AM to cram up a month of normal relationship life into three or four days’ break between tours. Stuart was snappy on the phone and blamed the long distance. He blamed Florence’s job.

Isa was family, Isa was home away from home. Isa was mascara-stained pillowcases and tequila shots in paper cups. Isa was _I’ll teach myself to play keyboard so you’re not alone_.

They’d made her write a song about it. Sacrifice. Give up the certainty of a boyfriend you don’t have to explain to the press. Choose your best friend and keyboard player instead. Sacrifice comfort, choose secrets and gossip. Start small, but start happy. Start from your sister. Tell her _Grace, you were right. I don’t think I am a lesbian, but I love her_. Be open; be brave; sacrifice the known.

Isa produced her phone out of her pocket and offered it to Florence. “Call Gracie first. She’s worried sick about you. Where Stuart, if you don’t mind me saying, will mostly worry about himself.”

That was the first and only time Isa had expressed an opinion about Stuart. Even when he and Florence had been fighting, she’d never taken sides or openly said they weren’t right for each other. But it was easier to be honest now that Florence had made her intentions clear.

Florence found Grace’s number in Isa’s contacts and put the phone to her ear. She took a deep breath and started off very gently. “Gracie? Are you home? Listen, I’m sorry I reacted that way.”

Isa couldn’t hear Grace’s side of the conversation.

“Yeah, I know. I will explain, I promise. I got offended. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

A pause.

“I just wanted to be alone for a while. Yeah. I know. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll be home tomorrow, ok? We can talk then. Yes,” she said, looking at Isa, at their fingers linked together on top of the bedcovers, at Isa’s thumb, stroking her wrist gently, right on her pulse.

She looked into Isa’s eyes, and confirmed, “Yes, I’m safe.”


End file.
